


Nameless

by minniemoments



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Protective Dean Winchester, Rough Sex, Sick Sam Winchester, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:38:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1310110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minniemoments/pseuds/minniemoments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is traumatized after seeing something gruesome on a hunt. Dean comforts him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nameless

Their relationship was weird. Sam’s tried to figure out a more accurate word, but only weird comes to mind. It doesn’t quite fit though. Odd? Strange? Bizarre? None of them have the right connotation, the right meaning, the right feel. So weird is the word Sam sticks with. They never really talk about it, their relationship. It has no category. They’re brothers, but not quite. They’re friends, but that’s not accurate. They’re... partners? Lovers? Soul-mates? Those words don’t fit either. And then sometimes they’re a mixture of the three. It’s pointless trying to label it or anything because it doesn’t really make sense. Their attraction to each other. Sam can’t remember when it even happened, how it happened for that matter. They aren’t like other couples. Such a strange word. “Couples”. It’ll do though. They don’t go out on dates. They don’t end and begin each day with an “I love you” - although it doesn’t need to be said. They don’t get to reminisce about their first meeting. It’s indescribable. Whatever it is they have.

***

“C’mon, Sammy, gotta eat something,” said Dean for the third time that day, trying to form words around the burger in his mouth. Dean nudged his knee under the table for emphasis.  
“Can’t. No appetite.” His words coming off as bratty.

Dean shot him a look telling him that this information was meaningless to him. It wasn’t his fault that every food made him feel queasy. He’s only been able to drink water, but in small amounts. Was he hungry? Physically, yeah, but that didn’t stop him from avoiding the stuff at all costs. It’s always been like this. Every so often, they’ll see something on a hunt - someone’s guts spilling out, a mangled thing smelling like death and mold, sometimes something as small as someone throwing up - that manages to destroy Sam’s appetite. It only lasts for three days or so. But, even so, Dean always tries to force some burger or slice of pizza in his face.

This time it was something a bit more gruesome. Hell, even Dean looked nauseated at the sight of it. The girl looked like a Jack the Ripper victim - throat slashed, breasts cut off, stomach sliced, among other things. The recollection of the image turned his stomach.

Sam spared a look at Dean’s burger. Bad decision. The thought of what went into that patty, how many hands it had been in, where it came from, the lot of it sent Sam straight to the tiny little bathroom of their motel room. Of course not much came up because Sam hadn’t had anything to eat since the day before yesterday. Still the motions were painful, his stomach convulsing, esophagus desperately trying to force something up. Dean came in a minute later, rubbing soothing circles in his back, trying to get him to stop.  
“Nothing left, Sammy. Calm down. Yeah, it’s alright, just get through it,” muttering words of comfort, not really saying anything, but it felt nice.

Eventually, he stopped. His abdominal muscles felt sore, and no matter how high of a threshold he had for pain, times like this usually forced tears from him. It was mainly part of a natural reaction the body had, but, on some level, all of this was psychological. It just gets to him, the cruelty of nature, how gory it gets, and then this is how he gets rid of it, purges it from his system. Sam’s tried to talk to Dean about it, but words never seem to amount to much, never seem to fit right.

***

 

It’s the fourth day. There’s never a fourth day. Three is the limit, the cap-off, the finish line. But there is a fourth day this time and Sam still can’t eat. Dean is worried out of his mind, more than before that is. He’s fallen into that big brother role again, the whole “Gotta protect Sam” spiel. Normally, he puts up some sort of fight, insisting that he’s fine and that he doesn’t need protection. At this point, Sam can barely talk his throat hurts so much. Dean’s dropped any sort of case, letting Sam rest. Every so often Dean will force some Gatorade down his throat.  
“Gotta stay hydrated, Sammy. Can’t have ya passing out on me.”

Sammy. That’s all Dean calls him when he’s sick. He’s never been fond of the nickname. It’s too child-like. As if Sam is still that little boy asking about where his Mommy is. He gets used to it though. It’s more for Dean’s benefit anyways and anything that can keep his brother sane is fine by him.  
“Mhm. Stop, tired,” Sam manages to croak out.

Dean pulls the bottle away immediately, not wanting to strain him. Always so compliant when he’s like this. That’s the thing about Dean, he can be this all around dickhead sometimes, but the moment Sam looks a little green, it’s all back to that brotherly role. The roles so interchangeable, so flexible, so natural.

Before long Sam has drifted off to slumberland.

***

_Knife. Blood. Screams. A girl appears. She’s calling out. “Help, someone help.” The words are soft, broken up. He’s running toward her, going as fast as his feet can carry him. He’s has to get there. Get there before it’s too late. “Please, help me,” the girl calls out again. Each time she calls, there’s less life to her words, less energy. Faster and faster, footsteps pounding against the wet pavement. His heart rate rabbiting. Can hear his breathing - loud and short. The calls are getting clearer. He’s closer. Just a bit further. Turns into the alley way. The lights are dim. He searches around. “Hello?” A cough. He turns his head toward the girl. He feels queasy. The girl’s legs are cut off. She’s bleeding. Lacerations all over her body. Chest mutilated. Eyes ripped out. She reaches out blindly. “Please,” she says again, voice rough and pained. It takes every ounce of his being to hold her hand. He’s fighting the urge to turn tail. Find the nearest receptacle. Can feel bile rising up, burning, taste bitter. “I’m here to help.” It’s a miracle he’s able to say the words without puking. Then it changes. The near death girl suddenly regains life energy. She’s pulling him down. He’s falling. The ground disappears. And she’s got him. That half of a girl. Pulling him further and further down._

Sam wakes up with a jolt. Breath labored, body drenched in sweat, pupils dilated. The dream fresh in his mind, the darkened room a playhouse for his imagination. He tumbles into the bathroom. Can’t stop his body from doubling over, convulsing on itself. Shivers running up and down his spine. Can’t stop the tears that fall. His throat, sore and raw. Can’t stop the sharp pain from hurting.

It feels like forever before he stops dry heaving, nothing left in his stomach. Sam stands up gingerly, holding his stomach tightly. Sees himself in the mirror. Eyes tinged red, dark circles under his eyes, cheeks streaked with tears. His own reflection is making him jumpy. The dream playing over and over. He tears his eyes away from the mirror. Splashes some water onto his face. Just needs something to relax him.

Dean stumbles into the bathroom, rubbing at his eyes, squinting in the light.  
“Sammy?”

Something about that word brings Sam back, back to reality, back to that little motel room. He pulls away from the sink and buries himself in Dean - hugging him tightly, tears falling again, and he just needs that closeness. Needs his big brother to tell him that everything is alright.  
“Just hold me.”

There’s no more words. Dean does it again. Changes from brother to just what Sam needs, almost motherly - kindness, love, and warmth. He’s rubbing and soothing and crooning. The dream is no longer at the forefront of his mind, just Dean. Only Dean. All of his thoughts in the present for once.

After a few minutes, Dean guides him back to his bed, turning out the light on his way out. Dean lets go for a moment to pull back the covers and all of those emotions come rushing back. He’s scared. He’s queasy. He’s vulnerable. Needs Dean. Before Dean can reach back out, Sam is pressed against the back of Dean, arms crossed in front of Dean’s chest, head buried in the crook of his neck, eyes squeezed shut. He hears a sigh as Dean gives up trying to do anything productive.

Sam nuzzles that little spot, relaxing a bit, but those feelings are still there. He starts kissing Dean - little pecks traveling from the base of Dean’s neck to his cheek, then his ear.  
“Please,” he whispers, voice small and weak from before.

Dean turns in Sam’s arms, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead before sitting on the middle of the bed, holding Sam’s hand and pulling him down on top of him. Sam kisses Dean, needy and urgent, but slow and tender at the same time. Sam’s reminded of that earlier thought. How easy it is for Dean to slip into the role Sam needs him for, but, at the base of it all, it’s Dean. 

Sam pulls away from the kiss, a pleading look in his eyes. He presses a hand to Dean’s groin for emphasis, getting a low growl in response. The way they can communicate with such ease; words useless little things, but actions and looks and body language holding all thoughts and feelings. Dean makes quick work of undressing both of them, eager to please, protect. He reaches over to the nightstand, fumbling around, trying to find that little bottle of lube. Finally he obtains what he needs.

Sam climbs on his lap, legs wrapped around his waist, pressed close against his brother, feeling Dean’s erection rub against his. Feels a wet finger circling his entrance, relaxing the muscles there until that first finger slips in. A dull pain forcing Sam to drop his head to Dean’s shoulder. Slowing down, Dean muttering words of comfort, not moving. Too slow, too gentle. Forces himself to all of Dean’s finger, body protesting. Lets Dean work him open a little before he receives another finger. This one going in with less difficulty. That dull pain, that uncomfortable feeling is still telling Sam to slow down, let Dean stretch him properly, but doesn’t listen. Dean just isn’t close enough. He grinds down into his brother’s hips, Dean ceasing his work at the pleasurable feeling.

He can tell Dean wants to go gently, take his time, do things carefully, but obligingly stops his ministrations. After a few moments, Sam feels Dean’s tip prodding him. Cautiously, lowers himself, not stopping until he’s fully seated. It’s a searing pain that rips through him, body wanting to get free, escape the intrusion. Tears spill over against his will. Dean’s tracing a pattern along his smile, trying to calm him as best he can.

Sam’s lost track of time. Can’t remember when they are or where they are. Only that Dean is with him. The pain has subsided and Sam feels himself slipping, that dream coming back to view. He rolls his hips a little. Dean presses a kiss to his forehead before he starts thrusting, slow and hard. It feels good, being filled so completely. When Dean angles himself just right, hitting Sam’s prostate, they lose it. 

Soft little moans fall from their mouths. Can’t help himself from rubbing against Dean’s abdomen, grinding down to meet Dean’s thrusts, legs tightening around Dean’s waist. Pressed together so tight. Sam’s so lost, so far gone. Doesn’t anticipate his climax until it’s already there. Warm, sticky liquid on his and Dean’s stomach and chest. Whimpering through the aftershocks, head nuzzled in the crook of his brother’s neck. Dean thrusts a few more times, then finds his release. 

They’re panting, trying to come down from their high. Only their bodies supporting one another. Sam’s still holding tight. Kisses the base of Dean’s neck - assurance, gratitude, love, all in one peck. Eventually, Dean manages to rearrange them in a more comfortable position on the bed - Sam curled against him, Dean’s arm around Sam, keeping him close.

***

It’s not anything that can be labelled. They simply are. Not any one thing at any given time. The ambiguous and defined relationship isn’t described, isn’t categorized, isn’t identified - nameless.


End file.
